


Maelstrom

by Kevin_Mask (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Kinnikuman Nisei | Ultimate Muscle
Genre: Drama & Romance, Family Fluff, M/M, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, One Shot, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 06:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17461970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Kevin_Mask
Summary: Kevin Mask never knew the risks that came with being a Chojin, not fully.Now he was to be a father, which brought a new set of challenges.





	Maelstrom

_A searing pain . . ._

_It coursed through every nerve, as Kevin strained his arms upward. The weight of the barbell provided a heavy burden, even despite the size of his muscles and usual routine, and his forearms trembled under the immense pressure. Each inch of skin was aflame. Moisture collected behind the mask, as Kevin panted for breath. The leather padding of the bench clung to his back from sweat, while he strove to hold the weight for five seconds._

_One . . . Two . . . Three . . ._

_The barbell crashed towards his chest. Two firm and callused hands snatched at the metal rod, breaking the impact and preventing it from crushing his chest, and Kevin – swallowing back saliva and bile – craned his head back to see the eyes of his spotter. Warsman stared down with red eyes narrowed. He easily wrenched the barbell back into its starting position, before he dropped it with a loud clatter into place. A low sigh escaped his lips._

_He walked around the bench, as he offered a hand toward Kevin. It was taken with relief. Kevin wrapped a hand around the wrist, while Warsman did the same, and together they shared the weight as Kevin was pulled into a sitting position, with feet firmly planted on the floor and back hunched forward. He braced his arms on his knees, while he panted for breath and let his sweat-soaked hair cling to his bare neck and back. A dull ache swept over his stomach, as he clenched and unclenched his hands, and Warsman said:_

_‘You should easily be able to lift that weight, Kevin.’_

_Kevin scoffed. A glass bottle was handed to him, which he snatched with fast reflexes and flipped open the cap, and – quickly downing the protein shake – a hunger formed that could not be shaken, as he craved for something far sweeter than the bitter liquid. He stopped once the bottle was half-empty, with a loud gasp and a slam of the bottle onto the bench. Kevin moved to lie back onto the leather. Warsman stopped him. It was a simple touch to his shoulder, but it said “no” and that was enough for Kevin to sit back upright._

_‘I’ll get it next time,’ said Kevin. ‘I just need to rest.’_

_‘No, I think we’re done for the day.’_

_‘You know as well as I that I am fully capable of lifting twice that amount.’ Kevin glared. ‘If I struggled, it’s simply due to fatigue and I can easily push past my limit. I have won almost impossible matches in far worse a state, so it’s hardly a concern, and I refuse to get sloppy in my training simply because you’re overly concerned on a trivial matter.’_

_Warsman shook his head and stepped back. He moved to the dumbbell rack and picked up the hanging white towel, before he tossed it to Kevin, and – caught easily in one hand – Kevin instinctively removed his mask and wiped the sweat from his face. The fabric was cool and soft, providing a well-needed comfort. He hummed. Warsman lowered his head and placed both hands on his hips, as he turned his back to Kevin and stepped away with a firm:_

_‘Go get some rest, Kevin.’_

_The knuckles of his hand turned white, as Kevin gripped the end of the towel. He waited until Warsman’s footsteps were out of earshot, before he snapped the fabric down and let it crack against the leather, and finally dropped it from his now aching hand. It slid onto the floor by his feet, where it crumpled into an inelegant pile. Kevin hissed. He stared at it for as long as he could bear . . . four . . . five . . . before he slammed a foot onto the white fabric. The fatigue remained, but the frustration abated as a muddy footprint stained the pure white._

_* * *_

Kevin hunched over the porcelain bowl. He clutched at the rim with white-knuckled hands, as his forehead pressed to the cold edge, and – no longer caring about hygiene – every breath was long and deep, as he sought for lost oxygen and momentary relief. The tiles across the bathroom floor were hard and uncomfortable, even with the mat around the toilet insulating his legs from direct contact, while a cool draught blew around the room.

The churning in his stomach was painful, while every clench threatened to bring bile and undigested food back to his lips, and the taste of iron and acid was thick on his tongue, while he swallowed continuously in hopes of holding back the vomit. The pink t-shirt clung to his skin with sweat, while his hair fell limply over his shoulder. He pulled it back. Each movement of his head threatened for it to fall into the polluted waters, while he groaned with the ache in his lower back. He almost missed the sound of footsteps.

A pair of black boots stepped towards the toilet. The shadow that loomed over him was dark and cold, but the figure bent down to press a button that warmed the seat, and – as Kevin sighed with a half-smile – another button was pressed and the bidet extended to spray a burst of clean water against his face. He jolted back with a loud gasp. Kevin wiped at his face and panted for breath, as he looked up into an expressionless face and spat:

“What was that for?”

Warsman cracked a smile over his mostly metallic face-plate, while his red eyes glowed, and he crouched down to press a cold hand against Kevin’s cheek, before he pressed at the glands in his neck and examined him in detail. The coldness was a welcome change, enough for Kevin to gasp and lean awkwardly back against the wall. Warsman hummed. He stood back up and walked towards the doorway, where he lifted a leg high and braced it firmly against the frame, while he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. He shrugged.

“This is your fifth day spent nauseous, Kevin.”

“I am rather aware,” replied Kevin.

“I do not believe it wise to continue your training in this state.” Warsman frowned. “I will speak to Ikemen to make sure you are exempt from group workouts, while – during personal workouts – we must limit time durations and strenuous activities. We must also adjust your diet so that you continue to get full nutrients and protein, but avoid adding to the nausea.”

Kevin grunted, as he stared blankly ahead. He threw a hand upward towards Warsman, who grabbed at his wrist and helped him to his feet, although it meant losing his staged pose that always sent shivers down Kevin’s spine. The arousal was minimal, soon replaced by a lightheaded sensation as he swayed where he stood. A few coloured spots broke over his vision, while Warsman quickly snatched at his arms to balance him. Warsman asked:

“Did you plan on telling me?”

The words hung heavy between them. Kevin furrowed his brow, as he glanced over Warsman, before he shook his head and shrugged. The awkward silence was broken only by the dripping of a tap, along with the heavy hisses of breath from each man, and Kevin – with a low groan – stumbled through the doorway towards the sofa, where he collapsed onto the cushions and curled into a foetal position. Warsman marched towards him and asked:

“Why did you not tell me you were pregnant?”

Kevin jolted upright, all traces of nausea gone. The shock ran through him like a cold wash of water, as he shivered and shook his head with a shuddered exhale, and – raising his hands in surrender – Kevin opened and closed his mouth without sound. He craned his neck upward, to see Warsman staring down with folded arms, and it took all his strength to remain upright, until Warsman took pity and came around the other side of the sofa. A few cushions were plumped and placed behind his back, while Warsman sat on the edge and took his hand.

“I’m most certainly _not_ pregnant,” said Kevin.

“You have been continually fatigued for some weeks,” replied Warsman. “You have experienced backache, nausea, sickness, weight gain . . . I have even witnessed various cravings as of late, along with what I would be loath to call mood swings.”

“You forget one important thing: I am a man.”

“Yes, but a Chojin. It is not something that occurs often, as – with recent generations – there have been relatively few same-sex couples, but it is entirely possible as your body allows for impregnation. You may think of your rectum as similar to the oesophagus, which forks in two directions with the epiglottis controlling what substances go in which direction.

“We have not been using protection, Kevin. I assumed this was because you were taking care of matters, but it seems that Robin has neglected to have ‘the talk’ with you, so to speak. I find it entirely possible that – during our intercourse – you were impregnated. I doubted you would speak to a doctor about this ‘stomach flu’, so I have instead taken the liberty of making an appointment on your behalf. We shall see tomorrow to make certain of events.”

Kevin gently pulled away his hand. He ran his fingers through his hair, as he slunk ever lower on the sofa and reclined with head buried against the pillows, but the room spun around him and his heart raced until it blocked out all other sound. Sparks darted across his vision. A cold chill overcame him. He barely had time to roll onto his side, as Warsman snatched up a washing-up bowl and held it beneath him with quick reflexes. Kevin emptied his stomach. A sharp and bitter taste of acid overcame him, as he choked and spluttered and asked:

“You – You’re joking, yes?”

A horrific smell omitted from the bowl, as Warsman dropped it back onto the floor. It sat beside the coffee-table laden with medicines and liquids, before he draped a clean cloth over it to hide the smell and sight, and – as Kevin collapsed back onto the sofa – a wet washcloth was brought out to mop at his brow. Kevin panted for breath, desperate for clean oxygen. The touch of cool water on his skin allowed him to briefly relax, even as tears formed.

Warsman showed no sign of emotion. There was no hint of a lie and no manipulation, but simply the cold truth that Kevin was likely pregnant . . . date indeterminable. The tears blurred his vision and distorted their lounge. Kevin slowly lowered a hand to his stomach, where – through the pink fabric – a swell was present to the touch, and he winced to think how the weight increased in one place and one place alone. He reached out to Warsman, who took his hand and kissed it on either side. The air grew cold around them.

“I _cannot_ be pregnant,” whispered Kevin.

The choked sobs finally escaped him, as Warsman knelt over him. The muscled arms pulled him into a warm embrace, as Kevin clung to his shoulder-plates, and traced his callused fingers over where metal finally touched human flesh. He gasped and panted for breath, while Warsman rubbed at his back and whispered lost words of Russian. A few minutes passed between them, until Kevin finally calmed enough to sit upright without support, and he dropped both hands to his stomach. He swung his feet onto the floor, as Warsman said:

“You still have options, should you wish –”

“It’s – It’s not that.” Kevin heaved a deep breath. “Do you realise how tough my upbringing was underneath Daddy’s thumb? There is a reason I ran away from home! I know nothing about raising a child with love and affection, and only about battle and death and bloodshed, none of which are conducive to a healthy and positive childhood, are they?”

“I am sure you would be an excellent father, Kevin.”

“Would I? What if I resent them for setting back my career? What if I repeat my father’s mistakes, pushing them too much onto a path that despise? He never gave to me the ‘Robin’ name . . . perhaps he saw what a disappointment I would be for it . . .”

Warsman slid closer to him. A firm hand was placed on his shoulder, as an arm wrapped around him, and Kevin leaned his head against the crook of Warsman’s neck, leaning down a little to make the physical contact. The wind blew outside, as it whistled against the windows and picked up a few stray leaves from the nearby park. Kevin closed his eyes. He half-smiled as Warsman ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing out the dirty-blond locks, and he listened to each and every breath with a regular rhythm. Warsman whispered:

“You know his mistakes so as to never repeat them.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I also did not have an easy childhood,” said Warsman. “I share many of your fears. I was bullied a great deal for my appearance as a child, something which I fear our child may inherit, as they could equally share my fate as a cyborg. To this day, I live knowing that my father would rather have committed suicide in the ring than to live with his family.

“You and I share so much, but we have also both grown. You fight on the side of justice, defeating many foes that threatened the peace of our planet, and you have forged friendships that shall last a lifetime, winning the respect of those that once may have doubted your talents and loyalties. If our child has even an iota of your passion and empathy, I shall consider myself the luckiest parent alive. You are a good man, Kevin. Do not forget that.”

“I find it hard to believe you could doubt yourself,” murmured Kevin. “You have always been a source of inspiration to me, as well as one I could trust absolutely, and I know you have always swore to protect those in need. How can we go forward if we both doubt ourselves? I would have thought at least one of us would need to be strong.”

“If we can both be strong for each other, we shall have all the support we need. I promise you, Kevin, that neither of us shall be alone and our love for this child will always be enough, for I never thought I could experience love at all, but – through it all – you proved me wrong.”

“And what if I make a mistake? How would you forgive me?”

“There is no mistake so great that it cannot be rectified.”

Warsman took a gentle hold of his cheek. A small turn was all that was needed for their lips to meet, as a chaste kiss lingered and Kevin released a staged gasp, and Warsman – kissing the tip of his nose – pulled back with eyes filled with affection. Kevin blushed and took some bottled water from the table, as he sipped slowly and tried to wash away the still present taste of his earlier illness. He hunched forward, while Warsman rubbed circles on his back and pushed back stray locks of hair, and more kisses were delivered to his temple.  

“We shall have a lifetime to work together to be the best parents in our potential,” said Warsman. “We have so much to offer together, as a team, and we shall surely balance each other out over time, so that our child will be the most loved child alive.”

“And you would be happy to have a child with me?”

“I may have first come to you with platonic expectations, but I have never had this close a connection with any living creature. You understand my every thought. You trust me as much as I trust you. We have experienced so much together, and I wish to spend a lifetime experiencing everything with you by my side. It will be an honour to bear a child with you.”

Tears formed afresh, as Kevin kissed at Warsman’s cheek. He pulled back with a blush, as he avoided contact with his lips, but – with a low chuckle – Warsman broke the contact between them and kissed him with full contact and affection, even as Kevin parted with a spluttered objection about his less than perfect condition . . . _‘you are always perfect’_. . . Warsman kissed him again, before he gently lay him down on the sofa. There was no protest this time, as the blankets were pulled up to his chin and tucked carefully around him.

Warsman made to stand, but Kevin snatched at his wrist. He pulled Warsman back down, before he guided him to lie beside him, and – despite the difficulty of their muscular structures on the small sofa – they somehow managed to mould themselves to one another in a comfortable manner. They entwined their arms and legs, while Kevin hummed to himself and fought back the building nausea. He found enough strength to ask:

“So we’re doing this?”

The cool touch of callused fingers came beneath his t-shirt, as Warsman traced strange patterns on his stomach and whispered Russian words to their unborn child, and Kevin laughed, even as his eyes half-closed and half-formed dreams darted across his vision. The fear slowly abated, while their child rested between them . . . waiting to be born. Warsman placed a soft kiss to his jaw, while tears formed in his eyes and he swore:

“We will do this.”


End file.
